My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step echoing like a countdown. The study door was ajar—just like all those nights he forgot to close it, pretending he’d come to bed. This time, I pushed it open. He looked up, pen in hand, mid-signature on some billion-dollar deal. Our eyes met. I laid the papers down. No sound from me. Just the rustle of documents and the slow crack in his composure.\n\nHe stood, voice low. "You’re not serious."\n\nI didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just pointed to the signature line.\n\nHis jaw tightened. "After ten years? After everything I’ve done for you?"\n\nI pulled a small sketchbook from my coat. Flipped to a page: a drawing of our wedding ring, shattered beneath a boot. His breath caught.\n\nOutside, thunder rolled. Rain lashed the windows. He reached for me—or to stop me. I stepped back.\n\nThe intercom buzzed. His assistant: "Mr. Kensington, the press conference starts in ten minutes."

Now I have to decide: walk out now and vanish, demand answers before leaving, or follow him to the press and reveal everything live.